


The Legend of Hodgkins

by Hannno



Category: Block B, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sope, Yoonseok - Freeform, jikook - Freeform, kookmin, zico from bap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 21:05:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11089920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannno/pseuds/Hannno
Summary: Hi, I'm Hodgkins, and this is my story.Sequel to: Our Burrito is Crisis





	The Legend of Hodgkins

**Author's Note:**

> Again, if you've read this shit on twitter user @h******h then dont worry das mine

 

 

 

It's been months. Months of seeing Jimin get up from his bed, trod over to the kitchen to make burritos for Jungkook, not even bothering to wash himself up.

I've always adored Jimin. He's an angel; one of the nicest people I've come across. And I, truthfully speaking, am so lucky to be living under the same roof as him, along with the other guys. We've had a process going on for quite a long time. I made lamb skewers, he made burritos.

Johnny, the oldest member, despite the exhaustive amount of burritos and skewers, never once dared to even eat at least one. But I never gave a shit, never gave a fuck. The routine had been going on for a while. We were loving the life.

But that one burrito changed everything.

Should I have stopped Jungkook from eating it, maybe then he should still be of existence today. And that's what fucking irked me the most- Jimin kept blaming himself; for something he never had control of happening.

And I, on that same day, had all the choices to make and I just had to choose the wrong one. Sure, Jimin fucked up the mexican food, but he wasn't in the wrong.

He never was. Nor was I, because I had no idea either. But seeing as I was there, and I could have stopped Jungkook from doing so- maybe not because of knowing the burrito was poisonous, because I didn't, but because of the fact that I knew Jungkook didn't ask for Jimin's permission, and that it was Lamb Skewers Day, not fucking Burritos Day.

I couldn't stop Jimin. Hell, I had no idea how to stop him. I could only watch, and it's fucking frustrating watching Jimin's eyes turn dull, knowing that our precious maknae is gone. Our most precious Kookie had been inside that hospital room for God knows how long and I fucking know the next place he'd be is inside a coffin.

I hated myself.

And throughout the hatred I remembered myself a few years back.

Of how self-hatred was the very thing that made me change myself.

 _Min Yoongi, Suga, August D,_ they used to call me.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

I was a fighter. My ammos my words, my body my own defense, for rapping was an intimate battle of letters, and words, and wits and skills, and I, was the best of the best.

I stood atop the podium- highest of the highest- chained myself within the area through exhaustive praxis.

I was a machine gun, disses as bullets. One pull of my trigger caused great distress to my enemies and I strived off of their weaknesses.

 _"Like this chain? 3 dollas_ ," was my best intro. They've always fancied my bigass chain.

 _"I'm rich_." Yeah I got them girls, too.

But there was this one opponent that made me lower my notch that it caused an uproar throughout the underground. No one's ever nudged my position for years; and this one fucker just had to fuck it all up. He was great, I admit. One of the best, his wits. He was quick. Slick.

He came by the name of Emmemem-em. I could only watch as he, one by one, stepped up a notch every competition. I was furious.

I was so caught up on being on high platform that I never had the chance to know how it feels like to be tipped over; fall on hard ground.

Emmememem, or as I'd like to call him, Meme, pronounced as _Jaguar_ , never really bothered about the long standing hierarchy, that I know.

Should I have forced myself into a fight with the opposing side so clueless of the wreck before him; the wreck he himself made, made me a vessel of exasperation and madness. It hasn't even been a few weeks and Meme had already taken over the underground. My disses ricocheted, my own words hitting me with the supposed deathly purpose and I so badly wanted to take out the bullets that hit me with my own hands and endure the pain that was of the aftermath of my weakness because I deserved it. I was weak.

I thought I wasn't, I thought I was strong, and macho, and buff. But I wasn't. All the things that I thought I was, were the lies I built to ignore whatever problems I had as a former gym instructor turned rapper.

All for naught was my hard work. All for naught was my endless cycle of tiring days of desperation.

I stayed down for days. I tried to toughen myself up, forced myself to write verses. Tried not to give up. Meme and I never really had a proper conversation. The ring the only place for us to exchange words. Never actually met him outside of it.

Until that one Thursday afternoon.

I got out of my room for some fresh air- the lingering scent of sweat and misery was too much for my system. The sun wasn't a motherfucker like it usually was, tried hiding behind thick clouds.

I sat on the stairs just outside my rented room, my head fixed on the skies, and thanked the gods it wasn't sunny. I wouldn't have gotten out in the first place if it was. I stayed like that for a good while. My place wasn't crowded; I lived a good few blocks away from the heart of the underground, and if there were passers-by, they wouldn't pass up to a quantity of more than five. I mostly hated company anyway, the feeling of solidarity never a foreign thing to me.

Zico from B.A.P. passed by at some point, and we had a good chat. He was a great rapper, great friend.

My personal favourite verses of his were from his solo, _'Bermuda Shorts._ ' Out of all the rappers I wasn't too keen on in here, he was one of the exceptions.

"What in the hell are you doing here, anyway?" He asked, knowing I rarely go out when not necessary. "Waiting for someone?"

"No," I replied, "just wanted some fresh air."

Zico nodded at that, "That was one hell of a fight, huh?"

I raised a brow, confusion on my ace.

"I meant Meme. What a tough fucker," Zico added. "Never saw the crowed so hyped up."

"Yeah." Zico was right. "Yeah, he fucked me up real bad."

"Damn, and I never thought you would ever get defeated like that," he snickered, earning a middle finger from me.

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you, too, and speak of the holy devil," Zico's eyes brightened up at that, "he's here."

"What?"

"Gotta go. Bye!" And with that, Zico ran.

I turned to my left, and speak of the devil alright, Meme was walking towards me, his nearing steps on the damp pavements making me stiffen.

And suddenly, I wanted out. I wanted to get up and punch him, but half of me wanted to crawl back into my apartment, or whatever I could do to be face to face with the damn motherfucker. Nevertheless, I stayed, stiff, dreading the unwanted interaction outside of the ring.

“Hey,” Meme greeted me with a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_chapter 1; end_

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted on aff


End file.
